Falconridge

by Jennifer Wilde

  Helena was elated that I had found the list. She made a few hasty additions to it and then handed it back to me. The phaeton was waiting for me in front of the drive, the groom holding the horse by the bridle. He helped me into the seat, handed me the reins, and I drove away from Falconridge, the wheels crunching on the crushed shell drive. It was delightful to be out in the open air after the scene with Martha. I reveled in the fresh air that touched my face and the warm sunlight that sparkled brightly.

  The drive to the village was pleasant. I drove slowly, letting the horse take his own pace. I passed through the woods and saw the clearing where I had had my first encounter with Norman Wade. The memory of the event caused me to smile bitterly. Only two weeks had passed, and yet it seemed to have happened in the distant past. There had been so much activity since then. I wondered if Norman Wade would ever forgive me for my little deception, and I wondered if I would ever forget the sensations I had felt when his lips were on mine.

  The road curled out of the woods and into the open countryside, all bathed in the radiant sunlight. There were large rugged fields behind the split wooden fences. The fields rolled over hills, the rich furrows of soil reddish brown, some of them emerald green with growing crops. I saw men working in the fields pushing primitive plows behind slow moving oxen. I passed farm houses, shabby little dwellings on the side of the hills, not nearly as nice as the large red barns with their tall, round silos. I knew this was where the tenants lived. It was hard to believe that all this land and all these farms were a part of Falconridge.

  I reached the crest of a hill and started down towards the village. It rested in a little cove, the buildings clustered around a sparkling blue harbor. A fleet of small fishing boats bobbed on the water, and there was an enormous naval vessel anchored there, the sun making bright bursts of light on its wales. Her Majesty’s flag fluttered proudly from its mast. The tall bronze spire of the church steeple rose above the roofs and the tops of gigantic oak trees, towering up to touch the steel blue sky.

  I could sense an atmosphere of festivity in the air as I drove into the village, caused, no doubt, by the naval vessel. All the villagers were out, greeting the sailors and hoping to sell goods to them. I drove past the village green where children played around a tarnished bronze statue. Farm wagons were parked around the square, and old men in straw hats sat on the benches, chewing tobacco and talking. I left the phaeton in front of the hardware store and did my shopping quickly. One of the shop keepers told me that the ship was on its way to America on some mission or other, and this would be one of its last stops before it moved across the ocean. Few ships ever stopped at the humble little village and it was quite an event.

  My shopping done, I strolled along the streets, shaded by the limbs of the oak trees. The little shops were white and blue and pale green, all neat and clean. The sidewalks were narrow, the cobbled streets taking up most of the room. Blond haired sailors in crisp uniforms thronged about the streets in small groups, laughing, pointing, all blue-eyed, with fresh, boyish faces and muscular bodies. The village girls were in their best dresses, strolling along in pairs and openly flirting with the sailors. My arms laden with packages, I paused to admire some hats in the window of the milliner’s shop, then walked on down to the piers.

  There were even more sailors here, watching the fishermen patch the salt-encrusted nets that were strung up on poles at the edge of the water. Some of the nets were still wet, with glittering fish scales caught up in them catching the sunlight. The men had seamed, weathered faces, and they worked silently, mending the nets and ignoring their audience. Women with baskets of fish stepped over coils of rope and poured the fish into briny barrels. A girl with long black hair was surrounded by sailors. She wore a vivid red dress, and large golden earrings dangled from her ears. The sailors whooped with laughter at something she said, and she threw back her head, smiling at all of them.

  A man was selling salt water taffy at a little cart, and I stepped over to buy some. As I did so, I noticed a young man watching me. He was wearing a pair of faded blue denim pants and a sleeveless blue and white striped jersey that exposed the tanned, muscular arms folded over his chest. He leaned against a pole, his sun bleached hair falling in waves over his forehead, his dark brown eyes following me as I bought the taffy. The man nodded at me. He was obviously a fisherman, a burly lad who loitered about the pier when there was no work to be done. I gave him a haughty glance, turning to go back toward the phaeton.

  As I did so, I saw something that made me stop abruptly. My uncle was at the other end of the pier talking with a sailor. Charles Lloyd had a letter in his hand, and I saw him give it to the sailor, who nodded vigorously and stuck the envelope in his pocket. Then my uncle took out some money and thrust it into the lad’s extended palm. They talked for a moment longer before the sailor turned and walked away. My uncle watched him leaving, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  I wondered what in the world he could have been talking to the sailor about and what kind of letter he could have given to the boy. My uncle hated the village, I had heard him say so several times, and he avoided coming here. Yet there he was, an incongruous sight on the crowded pier. He was wearing glossy brown boots, a handsome brown suit, and a vest of yellow satin stitched with small brown designs. He wore a tall brown hat and carried his riding crop.

  I did not want him to see me. I started to hurry away, but I was stopped by the man who had been leaning against the pole. He stood in my path, blocking the way. His hands were on his hips, a broad grin on his face. There was a long pink scar across his cheek, and his brown eyes were full of mischief. When I moved to go around him, he moved too, still in my way.

  “Let me help you with those packages,” he said. “That’s a big load for a little girl like you to handle alone.”

  “I can manage quite well, thank you,” I replied frostily.

  “Where did you come from, little girl? I ain’t never seen you down here before.”

  “Will you please step out of my way,” I said.

  “Now, don’t be rude. I was just bein’ friendly.”

  I tried to move around him again, and again he blocked my way. He smelled of ale. I clutched my packages, suddenly very nervous. I did not know what to do.

  “There’s a nice little tavern just down the pier,” he said. “Why don’t you come have a drop with me? You’re a pretty little thing, you know, and a stranger in town. Jake here will show you around.”

  “No, thank you,” I said, my voice trembling a little. “Now get out of my way.”

  “You ain’t bein’ friendly,” he said, menace in his voice. “I ask you to come have a little drop and you ain’t friendly at all. Come on, now. I ain’t goin’ to hurt you.…”

  He took my arm. I dropped my packages, trying to pull away from him. He laughed huskily. His eyes were sparkling now. The smell of ale was overwhelming.

  “Let go of her,” Charles Lloyd said.

  The man looked up, belligerent. Charles Lloyd stood quite calmly, his eyes flat. The man released me and stepped back, an ugly look on his face. He doubled up his fists and narrowed his eyes.

  “You stay out of this, Mister,” he said. “It ain’t none of your affair.”

  “Come along, Lauren,” my uncle said, ignoring the man.

  I gathered up my packages, looking up at the two men nervously. I saw the man called Jake rear back, ready to strike. As he did, Charles Lloyd struck him violently across the face with his riding crop. The man cried out, stunned. There was a large red gash on his jaw, and he touched the blood, his eyes full of amazement. My uncle waited calmly, ready to deal another blow if necessary. The man backed away, unprepared for such a cool, vicious adversary.

  Charles Lloyd took the packages from me and led me away from the pier. His face was inscrutable. He seemed calm and collected, walking in long, self-assured strides as though nothing had happened. He never once looked back to see if the man were following us. He did not acknowledge the stare
s of those people who had witnessed the scene and watched us with curiosity. I hurried along beside him, my cheeks pink with shame over the incident. I felt that he blamed me for it. We were on the shady sidewalks of the village proper before he spoke.

  “You came alone?” he asked.

  “Yes, in the phaeton. It’s in front of the hardware store.”

  “I’ll drive you home. I’ll send a servant back for my horse.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” I protested. “I can manage.…”

  “But it seems you can’t, Lauren,” he replied acidly. “I might add that respectable young women do not wonder about the pier unescorted. It’s fortunate for you I had business here today.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t.…”

  “You attract trouble. You seem to have no idea how to conduct yourself in the proper manner. That’s most unfortunate. It seems I’ll have to keep a tighter rein on you in the future. You are not to come to the village again without my permission.”

  “But, Aunt Helena said.…”

  “Don’t argue with me, Lauren. I’ve had enough trouble with you for one day. I am the Master of Falconridge. As long as you stay there, you will do as I say.”

  Neither of us said a word during the drive back to Falconridge. My uncle drove slowly. I felt that he was deliberately holding himself back and that he wanted to whip the horse into a lather and race madly. I could feel his anger. Strangely enough, I felt that the anger was not caused by the incident with the man on the pier. It was directed against me, but I felt there was some other explanation for it. He was angry not because he had had to rescue me from the advances of a stranger, but for some other reason I could not fathom. I sat beside him, my eyes straight ahead, holding the packages in my lap. My uncle gripped the reins very tightly, and I saw his knuckles were white. It was all very puzzling, very puzzling indeed.

  VIII

  LUCY LOOKED PERTURBED the next morning as she came into my room. Her thin face was pale, and there were shadows around her downcast eyes as though she had just been scolded. She moved about in a doleful manner, all her bright vivacity gone. Her pale blonde hair had not been combed, and she was not nearly so neat as she usually was. Curious, I asked her what was wrong. She looked up with large blue eyes, hesitating before she answered.

  “Ma and I’ve been quarreling,” she said. “She hit me, called me a meddler and a chatterbox and told me to keep my mouth shut.”

  “What brought all this on?”

  “I’d better not say, Miss Lauren. Ma just got mad when I told her. She didn’t believe me. You won’t either. I’d better not say.”

  “Don’t be tiresome, Lucy. Tell me what happened. And stop fussing around the dressing table. Look at me and tell me what caused the quarrel.”

  Lucy put down her dust rag. She looked very pathetic in the old black dress that had clearly been handed down to her. It was too short, badly frayed at the sleeves, and the material was shiny from too much wear. Only her apron was new, crisp and white. Lucy perched on the window seat, looking down at her thin hands. She seemed very nervous. I was impatient with her, but I knew I shouldn’t try to hurry her.

  “Last night,” she said, “I was in my room—the little room behind the servant’s staircase. I couldn’t get to sleep. I was that tired, all my bones aching. Ma made me scrub all the pots and pans when I was finished helpin’ you. It was real late. A spot of moonlight was playing on the wall of my room, making it all silvery.…”

  “Yes?” I said, urging her on.

  “I’m like that a lot,” she continued, not to be rushed, “can’t get to sleep. I just lay there in bed, tossin’ and turnin’. Ma says it’s because I’m growing. Anyway, I looked out my window, and I saw that thing again—that thing in the black cloak. Only it wasn’t leaving the house this time. It was coming towards the door by the staircase.”

  “You’re certain you didn’t imagine it?”

  “I’m certain, Miss Lauren. But wait, let me finish. In a little while I heard someone on the stairs. They go right over my room, you know. I couldn’t mistake it. Someone was going up the stairs.…”

  “It was probably one of the servants,” I told her, finding nothing particularly unusual about her story. One of the servant girls probably had a boy friend and had been coming back from a rendezvous. Naturally she would slip back in the house after dark, making as little noise as possible.

  “No, Miss Lauren. It wouldn’t have been. No one uses that staircase anymore, not since the left wing of the house was closed up. The staircase leads up into that part of the house. We all use the back stairs, the ones coming down from the main hallway. There would be no reason to use the servants’ staircase anymore, not unless you wanted to get up to the left wing—and it’s all closed up.”

  “Well, Lucy, I don’t know quite what to make of your story.”

  “I was scared, Miss Lauren, real scared. I didn’t sleep a wink for the rest of the night. I told Mrs. Victor what happened. She’s the only one who has a key to the left wing. There’s a little door at the top of the staircase, and it’s kept locked, just like the main one. Whoever it was—on the stairs—had to have a key.”

  “You didn’t hear anyone coming back down?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “I’m positive, Miss Lauren.”

  “Then—perhaps you did imagine it all.”

  “That’s what Ma said. Mrs. Victor went straight to her and told her she’d have to keep an eye on me. Said I was tellin’ stories again. Ma wouldn’t believe me when I told her what happened. She boxed me on the ear.”

  “Well, I’m sure there’s some reasonable explanation for what you saw and heard, Lucy. Now cheer up. You look much too glum. I’m to have the final fitting for my ball gown today, and if Mrs. Graystone finishes with it I’ll bring it home and show it to you this afternoon. Won’t that be nice?”

  “Yes, Miss Lauren,” she replied quietly.

  “Come, Lucy, I must get ready for breakfast.”

  I found Helena in the sitting room later on in the morning. She was wearing an old blue smock and, strangely enough, her diamond earrings. A box of paints was open on the desk in front of her, and she was painting little gold borders around the invitations to the party. She dipped the brush into the paint, bit the tip of her tongue, then spread the gold paint evenly around the squares of cream colored stationery. The dogs played at her feet, and a cigarette slowly turned to gray ash in a tray beside her. She glanced up when I came in, gave me a vague smile and went back to her work.

  “It’s nonsense, of course,” she said, “but I want them to look especially nice. I wish there had been time to get proper engraved invitations, but these will do nicely, yes, nicely.”

  “They look lovely,” I said.

  “At any rate they’re nicer than the ones Lady Randall sent out for her ball last year. Scraps of paper—mere scraps of paper. I wouldn’t have made out a grocery list on them.”

  Helena put her paint brush down and took a final puff on her almost diminished cigarette. She crushed it out, yawning a little. She had been getting up much earlier these past days, claiming there was too much to do for her to stay in bed. The workmen were gone now, but the servants were still busy with the house. It was beginning to shine with a new luster, although the effect was rather like that of an old woman who tries to disguise her age with too much paint.

  “Haven’t you got a fitting today, dear?” Helena asked. “Lavinia should be almost finished with your gown.”

  “I’m going to Dower House after lunch,” I informed her.

  “I’m anxious to see the gown. You’ll look lovely in it. I’m going to take my old blue satin out of moth balls today. It’ll do quite well for the party. It should—it did well enough for my Presentation!”

  Helena rattled on about her presentation to Her Majesty several years ago. She continued to paint as she talked, flicking spots of gold paint over her smock. I was anxiou
s to ask her a question, and it was some time before I found the right moment.

  “Helena,” I began, “do—uh—do any of the servant girls have a boy friend that you know of?”

  “Boy friend? I shouldn’t think so.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Well, let’s see—there’s Millie. She’s over thirty and as dried up as a prune. Agnes is pushing forty, and her husband’s the gardener. Jane, perhaps, but she’s the butler’s niece. I would imagine he keeps an eye on her. That leaves Cook, and she’s a widow, and, of course, Lucy. Martha Victor is out of the question. Why did you ask?”

  “Just curious,” I replied.

  “I would probably know about any romance below the stairs. We had that awful Agatha last year—red hair and as forward as could be. Quite a little hussy! We had to dismiss her because of Norman. Young men will be young men, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, thinking of the incident at the clearing.

  “Martha has always kept a pretty tight rein on all the girls who have worked here. She wouldn’t tolerate any goings on.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I agreed.

  “Now, what is this all about? You surely had a reason for asking me.”

  “Oh, nothing really,” I said, trying to make light of it. “Lucy thought she saw someone coming into the house last night and heard them going up the servants’ stairs. I fancied it might have been one of the servant girls coming in from a rendezvous.”

  “Lucy must have imagined it,” Helena said, lighting a new cigarette. “No one uses those stairs anymore. Besides, they go up to the left wing, and its closed.”

  “Lucy seemed quite certain,” I said.

  “Poor child. I’m afraid her imagination is a bit too lively. She has always been that way, even as a small child. Nervous, unable to go to sleep. Perhaps it’s because her father died when she was a baby. She used to mope around and burst into tears at the least provocation. Then she started telling these stories—Cook says it’s because she wants to draw attention to herself.”